Dog Tags (30 page)

Now Benny was alone, and the shadows gathered, and he recalled Germany. A limousine purred into his drive, gleaming softly in the gray light, and Lin emerged in a dinner jacket, and behind him Prpl in Balkan dress, embroidered, a blue bandanna. The two joked and drifted toward Benny's door as the second car drew up and a liveried chauffeur stood at attention while 57359 sprang out, portly and bald, a gold pince-nez, a gold-headed walking-stick; he turned and offered a hand to Kinsella and Trezevant, Kinsella older but still starchy, Trezevant still tough and stocky. From the third car Ou-yang descended regally, tugging his Mao jacket into place, slicking down his straight black hair; he and Lin eyed each other, bowed slightly, did not speak. The knot of shadows flowed houseward. Voices rose: a working girl from Harrisburg. Music: he would play the Haydn for Ou-yang, the quartet, soaring and swooping. 57359 walked briskly, chattering, reminiscing of Berlin and Heidelberg; Prpl quoted Heine. Kinsella smiled fiercely; he and Trezevant wore green uniforms and each sported six stars on gold epaulettes. Nan took Prpl's arm, and Benny snorted.

“About time,” Carol said, rising with a smile to kiss him; she pursed her lips and closed her eyes and Benny wondered again what might happen if he declined to kiss; would she remain forever frozen in that attitude, unfulfilled, all gesture and no substance? He kissed her; she relaxed and withdrew. He kissed Sarah, who said, “Happy birthday, mon vieux.” Carol asked, “Scotch?” Benny nodded. Sarah said, “You look terrific.” “For a vieux,” he conceded. Sarah grinned: “A sale vieux.” “You're not supposed to know that,” he said. “Thanks, ladies. It's a warm room and a good evening.” On the hearth a fire blazed and snapped, the brown beams were ageless against the beige walls, and all was harmony: the tweed-covered couch, the leather-covered couch, the venerable carpet, the black piano, the hospitable upholstered armchairs, the lambent shimmer of hooded lamps.

Carol served him whiskey; he raised his glass. “Many more,” Carol said. “Hear hear,” Sarah said. Benny wondered if he were a problem drinker. Ten minutes and amiability would take hold. “To Joe,” he said. Thank God! The Lorde was with Joseph, and he was a luckie felowe.

“How I wish he were here,” Carol said sadly.

“Hell,” Benny said, “I'll buy you a shaggy dog. All Joe ever did was grow hair and ask ‘When's dinner?'” He heard another car and was momentarily bewildered—who could this be? Parsons? Trezevant. Old Trez. He was amazed when Carol rose and said, “Who's this?”—a real car!—and then he thought of Walt Coughlin, set down his drink and hauled himself to his feet.

“Sit down,” Carol said. “I'll get it.”

“No you won't,” he said, “I'll get it,” and saw, as he passed, her startled eyes. He heard the metallic slam, and at his own door took a deep breath; blood running quicker, he pulled the door open, and shouted with pleasure as he saw Jacob and Sylvia and Amos. “For God's sake, a
party!
” He thrust open the storm door, gathered his father to him, and pushed them inside one by one: hugs and kisses, voices rising, Carol and Sarah coming to help, coats, hats. “The heater broke!” Sylvia cried. “A six-thousand-dollar car and the heater broke!”

Benny said to Jacob, “That's a beautiful coat.” He stroked the cloth.

Sadly Jacob nodded, but Amos too was stroking the cloth: “That's right, that's right, it is. Never noticed in the car.”

“A gift,” Jacob said. “You remember my Thursday nights.”

“Pinochle.”

Jacob nodded. “And only three of us left. Years ago we were eight.” They manipulated hangers and buttons in a sluggish, dawdling ballet, the three little tailors; Amos's glasses slipped comically and perched precariously. “So about a month ago,” and as they sauntered toward the living room Jacob's eyes grew moist, “Itzkowitz and I were waiting for Mendel, and the doorbell rang, so we thought it was Mendel, but it was a messenger with two boxes. No message, just two boxes, with our names. Two topcoats, the richest cashmere, you saw, a perfect fit, each one. Next day we heard. Mendel went to a Turkish bath, the works, rubdown, and then took a nap with a whole bottle of sleeping pills. Cancer of the prostate. Undignified, also painful. So no more pinochle. A mean man, Mendel, but all the same.”

Amos, a man of culture, stood before the fire, turned his back to it and thrust his hands under imaginary swallowtails. After a moment he faced the flames and rubbed his hands, saying “Aah.”

Benny turned to Sarah, and his eyes widened. “My, my,” he said. “I really hadn't noticed,” and his daughter sealed his joy by blushing. “You
are
a piece,” he said softly. “Spin around.” She spun slowly. “I'll take a dozen,” he said. “There's only one,” she said, and he sighed. Jacob clucked: “What they wear these days.” Amos came to life: “For God's sake. Is that legal?” Benny said, “Among consenting adults.” “She's only a child,” Amos said, and Benny's eyes met Sarah's for a hot, funny, lovely instant. He laughed aloud. “A nice birthday,” he said. Carol came in with a tray, and after a moment's rumination set out strategic heaps of hors d'oeuvre. Benny pictured her in Sarah's dress and jiggled his brows. “What will you drink?” Carol asked, and the flames danced merrily, and everyone was all right, a little stiff here, getting old there, a miserable winter, but everyone was all right.

Before his third whiskey Benny prudently called Iacino, to hear that there was no change. “Blood count's the same. Everything
regular
. But I'd love to hear him howl once, or see his eyelids flutter.”

Benny nodded, translated the nod: “Yah. Me too. Always that …”

“That what?”

“Permanent damage. To me too, half a dozen tiny strokes every minute—”

“You're drunk,” she said firmly. “We have more important people to worry about.”

“You are all affability and condescension,” he said. “I'll call again about midnight.”

And did he care? He stood, his hand still resting on the receiver, a yawn building and thoughts exuding painfully. Do I care. Wanko or Roland or even Sarah or Joe: is there not a manikin, cunningly ambushed in the hem of a ventricle, or lurking back of the spleen, who gives not a tinker's dam for anyone but me? If they all dropped dead tonight that alter ego could survive it. Hearts do not break. Fortify the spirit with that truth: hearts do not break.

“Cigarettes,” Amos commenced, “pollution, the pill, permissiveness.” Sarah vanished into another world. Benny glazed slightly. “I don't mind living,” Jacob said, “and I don't mind dying, but I hate being sick.” Dope, Sylvia said, a nation of addicts, and Sarah smiled politely. Into a silence Benny belched; he tried to retrieve the moment by intoning “Evil spirit depart” and Carol groaned and rolled her eyes: “My barbarian.” “Strictly speaking,” Sarah said, “the barbarians were Persian.” Benny looked the question. “The Greeks made fun of the language, bar-bar, bar-bar, and it became the name for rude strangers, barbaroi, the barbarians.”

“Or Berbers,” Amos said. “That's a smart girl there.”

“No, no,” Benny keened; he saw Rospos and Demavin, inseparable and laughing, Beer Beer, bore bore, bar bar, and saw Lin and Prpl, plain as the full moon, and that plump usherette, and oh God what a year! Sid Berger's. Oh god of appetizers and side orders! His eyes shuttled, Amos to Sylvia, Carol to Jacob. Sarah: take heed! Beware!

“No what?”

“Nothing. A memory.”

“Some girl named Barbara.” Carol smiled, all toothy mischief, and Benny winked. Ho ho. There is no man that sinneth not.

He lapped up his soup and noticed that Sylvia had aged and was no longer voluptuous; she was, in the words of Benny's favorite masseur, “a fat Yewish lady.” Amos said, “The wine, the wine! You girls clear these bowls. I'll do the wine.” He scurried plumply, his glasses winking and glittering. “Ah,” he said. “Ah.” Wine plashed happily, gift of Amos. Amos sniffed, tilted, poured and swirled. Choirs sang. Benny throbbed with thirst. Amos had poured a mouthful for Jacob and the two old men sat wrinkled, judging solemnly. Amos puckered, and somehow kissed his own tongue. “The bouquet,” Jacob said. “The color,” Amos said. “The body,” they said. In desperation Benny lunged, snagged the bottle, and poured for the ladies and himself. This was no time for sobriety. “I have thought,” he announced, “of running for mayor.”

Pulse thudding, Benny sank deeper into his dinner, and into his bottle. Dimly he recalled a tale of homunculi. Homunculuses. Bottled, pickled, rising and falling with seasons and storms. So Benny one day, holding his breath, semaphoring from a Margaux of 1959. For now, at his own table, he felt that traditions were being observed, their importance affirmed, the seating arrangement perfect, and out of six lives and so many decades, the proper level of anecdote. Amos at Carol's right, Sylvia at his own, Sarah at his left and Jacob at Carol's, and still the strength to chaff and laugh, these survivors, intimates of Bach and Pinsky. It was mess in a crack Jewish regiment, banners and shields on the wall: Masada, Cologne, Auschwitz, Babi-Yar, Bronxville. God must have loved the Jews; he made so few of them. And there was plenty of wine yet. Carol looked fine, rosy and busty. How long had it been? Never look back. Nose to the west wind, all upon the hazard! A cabin in the mountains, stream, lake, sunrise, a blond squaw contriving sourdough pancakes. In the pink light a bass broached. Far across the lake, below a vast stand of spruce, the telephone rang.

“Let me,” Benny said, pushing off. He blinked powerfully and flowed to the hall, sure that it would be Frank Cole, but the operator chanted “I have a collect call” and he was saying yes, yes, of course, resisting a gorgeous burst of boozy tears. “That's what I call good manners,” he bellowed. “You learned something after all.”

“You betcha,” Joe said. “Ancestor worship.” Questions tumbled, answers flew. Weight steady, grades good. Benny wanted always to ask the eternal questions, Got enough money? and Got a girl? But he was learning, slowly and painfully, to subdue his own neuroses in the presence of youth. “I'm strong as hell,” Joe said. “Been lifting weights. How you feeling?”

“Good,” Benny said. “Slowing up a little but acquiring brains.” At the sound of the doorbell he prickled. “Damn,” he said. “All I wanted was my dessert.” Joe said, “I can call back.” Benny said, “No, no. Not you. It's the doorbell. Hold on, will you,” and as Carol passed he cried, “No. Don't go. Here.” He thrust the receiver at her. “It's Joe. Talk to him. I'll go.”

Carol showed puzzlement. Benny said, “Ah, there's trouble out of doors. Maniacs in the night. Werewolves. I didn't tell you.” He would open the door and be shot to pieces, and if this were any other woman he would touch her one last time, in all the secret places. “Here,” he said. “Talk.” He went to the door on wooden feet and opened it a crack, holding his breath. The front light fell yellow on Rosalie. Benny said, “Faugh.”

“I'm scared,” she said. The sound of a car faded. “I took a taxi.” She trembled.

“Of course,” he said. “Come in. Where's your husband?” He closed the door behind her and pleaded with Carol. Rosalie wore jeans and a brown leather jacket. Carol nodded bleakly; her earrings flashed. “He called up,” Rosalie said. You can't stay, Benny almost said. All I want is to be left alone. “Where is he?”

“I don't know,” she said. She had wept and her make-up had run. Absently Carol spoke to Joe. “I tried to watch television and I tried to sleep but I got the shakes. The real shakes. I heard noise and I couldn't breathe and my heart was pounding.” Beneath her eyes blotches of black and blue.

“Carol,” Benny said, “help me.” He aged, bowed under innumerable atmospheres. “Hold on, Joe,” Carol said, and covered the mouthpiece. “What is this?”

“Rosalie will tell you,” Benny said. “It's pretty awful. Please.” He took the receiver; it squirmed in his hand. “Joe,” he said. “Sorry. A patient.” Carol brooded at him, and led the girl off. Joe, he wanted to say, I'm sweating. Close to the line, Joe. An old sack of tripes, blubbering and leaking. “I'm innocent,” he said.

“Who asked you,” Joe said. “Innocence is another name for ignorance.”

Benny focused. “It is unbecoming for young men to utter maxims.”

“Your old men shall dream dreams,” Joe said, “and your young men shall see visions.”

“By gosh,” Benny said, “you've been reading that book.”

“It's on the wall of this booth,” Joe said. He spoke of a trip by sea, down the St. Lawrence next fall. Benny said, “Great.” What else? Advice? Teachings? Example? Preposterous! Different planets. Rosalie here! Happy birthday!

Sarah emerged, wagging her tail. Gently Benny suffocated while Joe babbled on. He made answer. Sarah hovered. Joe wished him many happy returns. They exchanged avowals of affection and nostalgia. “Call again,” Benny said, “and here is a surprise.” He handed the receiver to Sarah, imbibed a huge breath, wiped honest sweat from his noble brow, and shambled to the dining room.

Amid the black bears Rosalie sat like a baby rabbit. She had told them at least part; Jacob sat shocked, and Amos was furious. “You said nothing,” Carol objected, queenly and angry.

“What for? To spoil everybody's evening? Rosalie, have you been drinking?”

“No,” she whispered. Benny pushed his bottle along. “Amos, pour for her. Give her Sarah's glass. Anything about the baby?”

“No. It's just him.” She quaked a small smile, not now the blond goddess, and Benny breathed easier.

“Him. Well, you're all right here.” The laws of the tribe. He remembered his first sight of her, miniskirted and braless on a summer's day, glorious, the evil delight, and the memory merged with other memories: the sunny canyons of the great city and he too treading pools of light, the world his oyster which he with sword would open. He was some pounds heavier now and carrying considerable wine.